About Last Night
by Angelic Prophecy
Summary: "Look, about last night..." "I don't want to talk about it." What exactly happened on Christmas of '89? / MarkRoger slash / Movie-verse


**This is what happens when you put someone with a slashy mind and have her watch Rent, and she hears Mark and Roger talking about 'last night'. I know this is not what they meant by that but I really couldn't resist the call of the innuendo so you'll have to forgive me for that. :P Dunno what else to say except the rating is because I'm paranoid and probably only needs to be a T, but I like to stay on the safe side of things.**

**I don't own Mark, Roger, Rent or anything else mentioned below, minus the plot to this story. (:**

**Takes place IMMEDIATELY following Another Day in the FILM version of Rent.**

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"What, so you're on _her_ side now?"

Roger Davis was a little pissed, that much I could tell from the unexpected greeting and steely gaze I received as I walked through the door to the Loft we shared. Not _really_ pissed, just more irritated than anything. I sighed, pulling my camera bag off my shoulder and dropping it carefully on the table.

"No." I shook my head. "I just thought she had a good point." Both of my points were true. I didn't really like the girl or the way she was intruding or anything else about her, especially how she was flirting with Roger, and it was _working_. Neither of us knew her, and here she was just shoving herself into our lives. But I'd come to her defense anyway because what she'd been saying were words Roger needed to hear. I could give her that much credit at least; she was smart for her age.

"A good point?" Roger snorted. "She doesn't _know_ me, but she thinks she can just walk in here and tell me…" He trailed off, plucking at the strings of his guitar in another attempt to tune the damned thing. He didn't seem to understand that it wasn't going to work, and if he did, he was too stubborn to give up trying even if it _was_ pointless. That was when I noticed the half-empty bottle of Stoli on the coffee table – obviously Roger wasn't _completely _himself tonight.

With nothing else to say, I dropped down on the couch next to him, pulling off my gloves as he stared at his guitar intensely for about another minute before giving up and setting the thing down on the other side of him. He leaned against me, his head on my shoulder, fidgeting with the frayed end of the blue and white scarf I constantly wore.

"I don't need her fancy words, I don't need _her_. She's too loud and too optimistic and too…" He couldn't seem to think of another word to use.

"Well, maybe you do need someone like her. Might cheer you up." I suggested, hating myself for it. I was playing the role of the encouraging friends, putting his needs and his wants before mine. In that department I always put Roger first. What he wanted was more important than what I wanted, and the two most definitely did not match.

"No I don't. I don't fucking need to be cheered up, do I? No, I don't. I'm fine. I'm alive. I have everything I need here and now, right?" He motioned around vaguely with his hands. "I have a place to live, I have my guitar, I have AZT, I have… I have an okay life, it's not fabulous, but it's good enough. And I have… I have you. Why do I need her when I have you?"

I looked down at him for a moment, not sure how to respond to that at first. I chewed on my lip, trying to think like a best friend even though his words had made my stomach twist into knots. "Well yeah, you have me, but I don't… I don't think we'd really serve the same _purpose, _me and her…"

"Well, why can't you?" He asked, his tone slurring just slightly, though at least he was still following conversation. I felt heat blooming in my cheeks against my will and I opened my mouth to try and form the words.

"Because she wants to be more than friends, you know? And… That could be good for you. _She _could be good for you. She's really not that bad, and she probably knows you better than you think she does." I really didn't want to say this, but I felt like as his best friend – because that was all we really were, was best friends – it was my responsibility to be encouraging and help show him what would be better for him in the long run, even if that didn't end up being me.

Roger seemed to mull over that answer for a long time, and the conversation slipped away. After a while, he curled up against me, damn near sitting in my lap. "You're warm."

"…Thank you?" I arched an eyebrow, trying to seem confused and not show that I was enjoying how close he was to me. He buried his face into my neck, his arms wrapping around my waist. _Don't get excited. For the love of God, don't get excited, don't get your hopes up, he's drunk and he's cold and you're the warmest thing in close proximity, of course he's going to want to stay close to you._

Though that was easier said than done, because, well, this was _Roger_ and he was hanging all over me and he barely ever even touched me and I was enjoying this way too much for my liking, way more than I should have, it was practically _visible_ how much I liked him touching me that way, but he was too drunk and not observant enough to really notice my… reaction to it. _Cold shower. Don't look him in the eye. Don't say anything._

"Am I botherin' you?" His voice vibrated against the skin of my throat.

"Nah." I shook my head.

"Good. 'Cause I wouldn't've moved anyway." He pulled his face out of my neck and smirked at me, and I rolled my eyes, trying my hardest to look totally annoyed with him, as a normal best friend surely would. "You are warm though. I might just stay here all night."

"Well, I kind of have to sleep."

"We'll sleep together, then. We can stay right here."

_Poor choice of words, Roger Davis. Very poor choice of words. _

"I dunno…"

"Oh c'mon." Roger insisted, ever stubborn. "It'll be fun. You. Me. Sleeping together. Out on the couch."

Did he really _need _to keep using that phrase? I bit my lip, feeling a little more than uncomfortable as my face was filled with heat that he was oblivious to. He just sighed and snuggled back into me, every breath hot against the skin of my neck. Damn, that felt so _nice_. And of course he wasn't aware of the effects of his actions, and if he was for some reason, he didn't seem too intent on stopping. I closed my eyes, trying to concentrate on remembering how to breathe. _In, out, in, out…_

"Mark?" Roger's mumbling voice snapped me out of my thoughts.

"…Yeah?"

"You okay?"

"Huh?" I blinked. "Yeah, I'm… I'm fine. Why?"

"You seem…" He seemed to search for the right word. "…tense." I winced slightly. Was it really that easy to tell?

"I'm fine." I repeated, though in all honestly it came out sounding a little bit like a croak. He pulled back again and looked at me.

"Ya sure?" He asked, and I nodded, biting my lip. He shrugged, leaning his head back on my shoulder. "'m not mad at you, y'know?"

"Yeah, I kn-" Roger cut in before I could finish.

"It's just, I dunno… I'm… I dunno if I like her _like that_, and I dunno if I'm ready for…" He waved his hands but couldn't seem to find the word he was looking for. I opened my mouth to speak but he beat me to it. "Besides, 's'like I said, I have you, why do I need anything else?"

I shrugged, and opened and closed my mouth a few times, though I honestly couldn't think of a way to respond. So I just didn't, just sat there with my best friend's head on my shoulder, his breaths hot on my neck and tried to ignore the heat in my face and the knots in my stomach.

"And y'know… Maybe she would be good for me, but what if I don't _want_ to do what's good for me?" He had pulled away now and was looking at me kind of intently. "I've never done anything good for me before, why should I start now?" He reached for the bottle of Stoli and took another big swig before setting it back down and going back to eying me. I wasn't quite sure that I liked the look on his face. But I also liked it maybe just a little bit too much. He seemed to contemplate something for another moment as he studied me.

All I did was raise my eyebrow.

Suddenly he all but tackled me backwards on the couch, pinning me down with his hands on my shoulder.

"Wh-What are you…?" My heart leapt into my throat and every (and I mean _every_) muscle in my body was on red alert. He looked down at me with that same intent look, a wicked smirk playing on his lips. His breath smelled almost purely of alcohol as it fanned across my face.

"I'm doing something that's not good for me." And then he leaned down and pressed his mouth hard against my own. He tasted like vodka and cigarettes, and the kiss was rough and sloppy, but who the hell was I to complain? This was something I'd really hoped for practically since I met him. So I kissed him back as he all but lay on top of me, rubbing himself up against me. At this point, even a cold shower wasn't going to help me anymore. He shoved his tongue practically down my throat and my fingers somehow entangled themselves in his shaggy hair and I kissed him like I'd never kissed anyone before. His rough hands were everywhere before they went to my jeans, yanking my belt out of the loops and working down the zipper , one of them slipping into my boxers and discovering that I was a little more excited by the situation than I'd originally let on.

The rest of the night was a blur in my mind, everything kind of meshing together in my memory – the darkness from behind closed eyelids and touches from guitar-calloused fingers and the smell of sweat and the taste of vodka and barely suppressed moans of _more_ and _God_ and _Mark_ and _please_ and _Roger_. It took me a while to work out it all but eventually it just came down to the fact that my drunken roommate had given me a blowjob at 10 o'clock on Christmas night and I'd returned the favor but with my hands and it had all been so fucking amazing.

Soon enough, Roger had wandered off to his room and (I assumed) fallen asleep and I'd stayed on the couch, aching and staring at the ceiling before I finally went to bed as well, feeling unusual in so many ways as I curled up in my bed and fell asleep.

The next time I saw Roger, he was sitting on the window seat, cradling a cup of coffee and nursing a bit of a hangover, I imagined. I meant to approach him, but hesitated, looking at him. I wondered absently if it had meant anything, what he thought about it, if he even remembered any of it at all. I pulled on my coat, wrapping my scarf around my neck to hide the Mark his rough kisses had left on my neck, stealing myself to go and speak to him. The phone rang, and I took the moment to pause until I realized it was just Benny and not worth answering. I walked over toward the window, noticing how Roger seemed to sort of turn away when he heard me coming. But I spoke up anyway.

"Hey."

"Mm." He took a quick sip of his coffee, avoiding my gaze and crossing his legs Indian style as I sat down on the wooden seat by the window, facing him. I bit my lip, gathered up all the courage I had in me, and made myself speak.

_"Look, about last night…" _

_"I don't want to talk about it." _

And so we never talked about it again.

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**Sooooo did you like it? Hate it?**


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